System Down
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: In a world where persocoms rule, a line is about to be crossed. A line between man and machine. Humanity will never be the same again. [Full summary inside, AU, implied YxY, OCs]
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer:_** _I don't own YuGiOh, CLAMP, or SephirothsGoddess's original characters._

**_Author's Note:_** _As many people have been fond of pointing out to me, I have been a very poor updater for the past few months. And, though a lot of that is the result of personal stuff and school, it has also had to do with this fic, which I was writing for my friend and "onee-san," Trish. (Known to some of you, perhaps, as SephirothsGoddess.) Originally it was only going to be an Xmas present for her, but I like it so much, I thought I'd share it with all of you. XD I hope you enjoy—please remember to R&R!_

**_Full Summary:_** _Persocoms. Humanoids with the power of all the internet at their disposal; androids with highly developed bodies and superior minds; obedient robot companions of every child, teen, and adult. They're brilliant— beautiful— and, some argue, perfect. But what constitutes perfection in a computer? Its ability to function, its skills? Its advanced equipment? Is there such a thing as too perfect?_

_After finding a lone persocom in the trash, college students Bakura and Malik are shocked to find that their new 'com may, in fact, be just that. This TR;ISH model. . . what secrets does she hold? What is her purpose? Who made her? And how is she connected to the string of persocom 'murders' that the city of Domino has been experiencing?_

_A line is about to be crossed— a line between man and machine._

_Humanity will never be the same again._

**_Warning:_ **_This fic contains bad language, questionable romantic situations (humanxmachine, incest, yaoi), original characters (from my own personal stories and SephirothsGoddess's fic "I'll Always Come Back to You." And yes, I realize—as I generally dislike OCs—that I AM being a hypocrite. But I'm okay with that. :) ), OOCness, and controversial opinions on technology._ **PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.**

(ALSO, **PLEASE NOTE**: Though this fic **was** inspired by and may resemble CLAMP's manga and anime **CHOBITS**, it quickly takes a different tone. I fully admit and give credit to CLAMP for the idea of persocoms and all that said idea entails.

Additionally, though you in no need MUST go read it in order to understand this fic, as it is an AU through and through, if you'd like to get a better feel for the OCs mentioned, please go read "I'll Always Come Back to You." THANK YOU!)

**_Dedication_**: _For my "big sister" who's always there for me—whether she has time or not. Love you!_

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"_All feelings are excess! So much excess! It's so much superfluous nonsense, and I want nothing to do with it if I can help it! Clear the room of all ancestral furniture and rebuild it the way I want to. Flush the toilet, boys! It stinks in here! Get it? My mind stinks! Cluttered up with all its damaged files and corrupt machinery! Programmed and programmed and programmed and programmed! It's too much!"_

Nny; JTHM

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_PROLOGUE_

XXX

"**LOADING DATA IMPUT FILE. DOWNLOAD TIME: 1 MINUTE AND 4.5681 SECONDS. DATA NOW ENTERING SYSTEM MAINFRAME. PROCESSING. . .**"

The scientist smiled, leaning lazily back in a swivel chair. This was it. . . the world was mere seconds away from 'beholding' a new brand of perfection. Or, rather, a new _model_ of it.

Chuckling, the figure allowed their intense eyes to drink in the scene; savoring the moment. So much work. . . so much time. . . so close to fruition. The shadow's fingers clenched excitedly, gaze locking on—

"**ERROR. ERROR. SYSTEM DOWN.**"

"!" The young designer bolted upright in half an instant, utterly taken aback. "What! What the fuck—?"

"**MAIN FRAME ERROR. SYSTEM DOWN. ABORT. ABORT. AB— A— a—_krrrrrcxrrrrrrsh_. . .**"

"Dammit!" Horrified fingers zipped frantically over the keyboards, curses echoing off of the blinking walls. "Dammit all to hell!" The dim red lights of the laboratory began to flash, shrill sirens whirling to life. "Shit!"

"**Ab—_shxxxxxx_-abor—_xkrrrrrrr_— _Beeeeep __Beeeeep __Beeeeep_**"

"No!"

But no matter how much they swore or pleaded, technology—even stuff this advanced— could not bend to one's will. The scientist knew that better than anyone. After all, they designed the original program.

The original program which. . . **_rgh_**. . .

'_She warned me.'_

". . ." A growling sigh pushing though cold lips, the figure yanked its hair; watching helplessly as months of work broke down. There was nothing that could be done to reverse it, now. . . one could only start over. But how long would it take to repair the labs? Days? Years? Decades?

Unfortunately, that wasn't out of the realm of reason. . .

Sparks began flying from the countless wires that blanketed the small laboratory.

Slamming a frustrated fist against the desk, the figure cast the beloved creation a saddened look. '_. . . CPUs fried, I bet. Memory files damaged, voice chip most likely destroyed. . . And with how long repairing the lab equipment's probably gonna take, it would be easier to redesign her later; make her even _more_ advanced. More capable._'

. . . More advanced? Capable?

A snort fell from the scientist's mouth. "Yeah, right. . ." The designer doubted that _anyone_ would **ever** be able to do that—this machine was well over 50 years ahead of its time! But. . . it was the only shred of comfort to be had.

'_As Edison said, I didn't fail 2,000 times—I just found 2,000 ways that didn't work._'

With that bitter-sweet (and slightly ironic) thought, the shadow slowly trudged towards its "baby," ready to do the inevitable. '_Sorry, love. . . this hurts me, too._'


	2. The Find

**X **

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_**PART ONE**_

**X **

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XXX

_LOGIN ONE: _

The Find

XXX

November 12th, 2198.

The streets of Domino, as always, were bursting with life: full of shoppers, vendors, pets, traffic. Every color a person could imagine decorated the billboards and stores, flowers blooming in the Indian summer; emphasizing the bare brown bark of the carefully potted trees. One or two cars honked, but most of the white noise came from the underground—subways making the sidewalk tremble in their wake. People and persocoms smiled and waved to one another in the loitering crowds, children clinging to their guardian's gentle hands as they walked. It was a perfect sce—

"**_OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, YOU ASSHOLES!_**"

. . . except for him.

Pedestrians and drivers alike gasped and squealed as the silver haired male pushed through throngs of strangers, screaming bloody murder at all whom stood in his way. Panting and looking as though he'd just sprung from bed (which he had), the young man returned his attention to the ancient flip phone in his hand, ignoring the giggles of those who saw his "outdated piece of trash."

"Okay, I'm on third," he snarled, still out of breath as he began to sprint once more, making it across the street just before the light turned red. Growl deepening when a chuckle crackled in his ear, his chocolate eyes flashed. "Shut up!"

"_Sorry, Kura-chan, but you're so cute in the mornings!_"

The pale locked boy—evidently "Kura-chan"— began to grit his teeth, wishing vainly that he could kick his boss's ass. "Don't give me that shit, Yami. You're just happy that you now have a legitimate excuse to dock my pay!"

"_Well. . . yeah,_" the amused voice of Yami continued without a hint of guilt, "_There is that. And it's more than a legitimate excuse, you know—this will be the fifth time you've come in late this month, Bakura! Most people would fire you with that track record._"

Bakura glowered, hurtling over a robo-puppy. "Gee, I'm _SOOOO_ lucky to have such a kind employer."

"_Damn straight. But seriously. . ._ _You've really gotta upgrade, man. What're you using, an **alarm clock**?_" The other man broke into peals of laughter—before pausing, realizing there had been no response. "_. . . you're not _seriously_ still using an alarm clock, are you?_"

". . ."

"_Oh my God!_"

"SHUT UP!" the tardy employee snapped, cheeks flushed (and not just from fatigue) as he rounded a corner. Only two more blocks to go. . . "You know I can't afford _anything_ new!

"_How can you not afford a simple '**com** when you managed to take a lavish vacation to India a year ago?_" Yami asked, voice dripping with exasperation (and jealousy).

"You know very well that my parents sponsored that stupid trip!" So what if it had been free— it was still stupid. He would have preferred the cash. It was a waste of time—too hot, too crowded, too. . . much. The only thing he really enjoyed had lasted a second. Less then that.

He'd bumped into an angel; hidden beneath a maroon veil. A native girl, he assumed. . . he'd passed her on the street; her scarlet eyes still haunted his daydreams.

Suddenly embarrassed, the boy pushed the musing away. "And in any case," he continued bitterly, "if I wasn't broke then, I defiantly am now. I'm still paying off restaurant bills! I don't even have enough cash to change my mind, let alone buy a persocom!"

A snort. "_I doubt it—you can buy older models for practically nothing, nowadays. And ANYTHING is better then that antique shit you're using. Hell, I bet you're talking to me on that pwip-fone thingy right now—_"

"Flip phone."

"_Yeah, whatever— we ALL know that **has** to go; don't be such tight ass! Look, I'm glancing through a magazine right now; notebook style for $$350, platinum laptop series for $$400, and the 2345 desktop models are down to $$1,900!_"

Bakura rolled his eyes, growing bored with this recurring argument. "That's fucking swell," he panted into the mouthpiece of his phone, slowing to a jog as the familiar shop came into sight: **Dark Duels: Disks, Virtual RPGs, Antique & New Card/Board Games**. A sign just beneath it announced "**_Now Supporting Six 'The World' Servers!_**" The building's aluminum roof and cream-colored walls had been splotched with navy designs a few years ago; wild shrubs and vines crawled over its face and wooden porch. Bright morning sunlight glinted off of its stained-glass windows and red brick sidewalk, giving the place a quaint, rustic feel—much like the other stores in this district. "All right then, where do you suggest I get the money to pay for THAT? From the money tree? No. . . ? Well, you can't possibly mean from working HERE. With all the cuts you've put me through? Yeah, right. I can barely afford groceries! And it's not like I could buy a 'com with my good looks."

The golden door jingled as Bakura pushed it open; both men turned off their phones without missing a beat.

Yami— the young, tall, lean owner of the store— ran a nonchalant hand through his tri-colored hair before continuing the conversation; acting as if nothing had happened. "Bakura, I keep telling you—I'll give you a loan. Hell, if you can actually _get to work_ on time for once, a persocom would pay for itself. And hey, you shouldn't have to earn the cash all by yourself; get your lazy-ass roommate to help with expenses. I'm sure he'd benefit from a persocom around the house, as well." The older man straightened, glancing vaguely around his store, making sure everything was in place. And it was: the server ports for online RPGs were plugged in by the sensory-perception goggles; Kaiba Corps new puzzles, games, and cards were neatly piled and sorted on racks and shelves; the rarer merchandise had been dusted and locked safely away in the glass display case on which Yami was currently leaning. As always, Yugi had beaten Bakura to the punch. (Metaphorically, anyway.)

'_Not like the little punk needs the money; he lives with Yami for Christ's sakes!_' the silver locked man mentally grumbled, irritated. '_Yami just makes him do it just so he can rub it in my face._' And that was probably true.

"Mmm. . . yup!" the shop-owner suddenly grinned, giving a languid stretch. "Persocoms are well worth the cost. I don't know what I'd do. . . without mine. . ." His grin saddened slightly, depression clouding his amethyst eyes; fingers darting to the card-shaped locket resting against his collar bone. But he quickly perked up, beaming wildly when—speak of the devil—his persocom walked back into the room, having left to fetch coffee once Yami had cut off the previous phone conversation.

"Hey, Kura-kun!" the machine greeted cheerfully, carefully setting the silver tray near the register. He smiled, apparently oblivious to Bakura's expression. . . one of mild discomfort. A discomfort that didn't, surprisingly, stem from the persocom itself, though on some level it probably should have: it was frightening how far technology had come. And sometimes, when he looked out the window, Bakura did feel a little twist in his gut that had nothing to do with alcohol. But no, when it came to Yugi, it wasn't what he _was_ that bothered him—it was who he "replaced."

"Morning, Yugi," the Brit returned flatly, taking a mug from the counter with a sigh. He allowed his eyes to trail over the boy-shaped robot for a moment, setting his mind adrift.

Persocoms. It was astonishing how much they'd evolved in so short a time. Only 10 years. . . from rods-n-screw arms to androids who looked, felt, talked, and acted like humans. In fact, they were almost more human-like _than_ humans—if not for their mechanical insides, programmed brain, and (nearly) constant cheery attitude, they could have passed as them. Hell, sometimes it was hard to tell a computer and a mortal apart. In fact, it would have been _impossible_ if not for the robot's data import "ears": triangular encasing usually placed on the android's temples that allowed a person to hook their 'coms (if not a newer, wireless version) to the house's main electricity unit, enabling them to surf to the web. Still, data import "ears" were getting smaller and smaller with each model—Yugi, even as the first male prototype (all persocoms models up until 13 months ago had needed larger chips, and, therefore, "additional anatomy")— barely had "ears"; more like "nubs" right behind his decorative ear-shell, with buttons to open his mainframe in case Yami ever wanted to rewire him. Though that was unlikely— Yami loved Yugi more than any real person.

. . . That was the problem with most people and their persocoms. They simply loved them _too much_. After all, why bother befriending someone with flaws when you can have perfection, a phone, wireless internet connection, voice mail, e-mail, digital camera, calculator, dictionary, thesaurus, and companion all in one? Heck, you could even have _more_ then that if you were willing to dish out the money. You could program persocoms to do **anything**. . . to be **anyone**. . .

Bakura frowned, so deep in thought that he didn't realize he'd burnt his tongue on his drink. '_To be anyone. . . keh, why can't he just be happy with the memories he has?_' Though it wasn't his place to pry. . . that had never stopped him before. He started to open his mouth—

When Yugi turned on the neon "open" sign and kids (and their 'coms) gushed inside, already thinking of Christmas underneath the strangely hot fall sun.

The pale haired man was barely able to fight off a groan. '_Just another day. . . . Lord help me._'

**X **

Malik Ishtar couldn't take it anymore.

"GOD DAMMIT, BAKURA!" the blonde Egyptian bellowed furiously, throwing the front door open in a terrible fury. "Why didn't you fucking WAKE ME UP!" Oh, Prof. Pegasus was NOT going to let him get away with sleeping through class again. . . Fuck, he could hear him already: _"Pressed 'snooze' too many times, Maky-boy? Those 21st century contraptions are just as reliable as you!"_

". . ." Sighing heavily, the young man tore down the dingy apartment's many staircases, finding himself on the ground floor in less than a minute. '_Maybe Bakura and I should start saving up,_' he mused bitterly, pushing out into the bright sunlight of the busy Domino street. Pausing for a moment on the sidewalk, he groaned and spun on his heel, deciding to take the short cut to the quad through the ally. '_We really could use a persocom. Our electronics are falling apart, and nobody around here fix them anymore— unless it's for a museum display.'_ Panting softly, he hefted his bag a little higher on his shoulder—

When a strange raven glimmer caught his eye.

"—!"

Skidding to an abrupt halt, Malik whipped his head around; following the odd shimmer down. . . down. . . down. . .

To a large green garbage dump. Or, rather, to something leaning _against_ the large green garbage dump.

It was a **girl**. A girl of around 17; naked except for a thin bandage of rubbish-smeared gauze encircling the more private areas of her anatomy. Obviously unconscious, her thick ebony lashes were pressed firmly against her high cheek bones; her curvy, bronze body lay limp, slack; her long charcoal hair was strewn around her on the trash-covered cement.

His eyes widened, horror squeezing his insides. "Oh shit—!" he choked, falling beside her on the ground. Hand darting out, Malik began to shake her furiously. '_Please don't be dead—I don't have time to help you!' _"Miss, miss, are you okay? Mi— oh my God."

For the second time in less than thirty seconds, he did a massive double take. It. . . WASN'T a girl. . .

"It's a freakin' persocom. . . !" the Egyptian gasped, face paling. And it was—the cat ear-shaped data ports located where her ears should have been proved that without a doubt. (She was probably an older model, judging by their size.) But big or not, old or new, she didn't seem damaged. . . just "off". And with no one around to claim her—heck, she was _in the trash_— . . . !

No way in HELL he could be this lucky!

A large smirk slowly began to crawl onto Malik's face, hand sliding to his duct-tape covered cell phone. ". . . I think. . . I'm going to be absent today."

**X **

"That'll be $$5.63, please, mi—!"

Yugi unexpectedly straightened, blinking, as if only just noticing something. Then he grinned; turning to face Yami, leaving the customer temporarily baffled. But the little girl and her palm pilot understood moments later, just as the rest of the store did. "**PHONE CALL. YAMI, YOU'VE GOT A PHONE CALL**." the 'boy' sang cheerfully, humming what sounded like "ring ring!"

"Really?" The shop owner cast his 'com a glance from over his shoulder, holding up an apologetic hand to the young man he'd been helping. "Put it through, please."

"**YES, MASTER!**" The persocom beamed jovially before mellowing, eyes growing blank and dull: a fading violet hue, information racing through his mechanical mind and unseen sensors. After a moment of silence, however, he opened his mouth. . . and another male's voice flooded the room.

"_Yami? Yami, hey, man, are you there?_"

Bakura— who had been organizing magazines in the back— looked up, confused. "Malik?" he called loudly, dusting off his hands. "Malik, is that you?"

"_Bakura? You **are** there?_"

"Malik, what're you doing, calling my store?" Yami frowned, making his way towards the register (careful to avoid the little girl's 4 inch palm pilot, which was twirling frantically on the countertop), turning down Yugi's volume.

"_I need to talk to Bakura—and his freakin' cell wasn't getting any reception!_" Malik replied quickly, excitement evident in his tone. The amethyst-orbed man smirked, opening his mouth to retort— but was cut off by the Egyptian. "_Oh, save it, Atemu! This is really important! Put Bakura on, wouldja?_"

Temporarily taken aback, Yami paused—no one ever used his real name unless they were serious—. . . before shrugging and ushering a baffled Bakura closer. "You're getting a deduction for this, too," he murmured when the British man neared, grinning sadistically. Kura cursed bitterly under his breath, flipping his employer off as he flounced 'evilly' away.

"What the hell do you want, Malik?" he hissed, furious at how much money he had already lost today. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to buy a freaking soda from the vending machine without taking out a loan. "I can't afford to lose any more m—"

"_I found one._"

". . . ?" Bakura felt his complaint die on his tongue, staring flatly at Yugi's blank face. "Found what?"

"_A persocom._"

His eyes bulged. "**_What!_**" he yelped, before quickly smacking a hand to his mouth.

. . . oops.

A hush fell over the store, all heads turning towards him. The employee flushed a bit, grabbing the small robot's hand; leading him into an empty room in the back before continuing in a whisper—nearly bashing his knee against a hidden cabinet. "_WHAT_? What shit are you talking now! How did you bu—!"

"_I told you— I **didn't** buy one_," Malik cackled gleefully, pride evident in his tone. "_—I **FOUND **ONE._"

"—!" Bakura felt his chocolate pools widen once again, fingers tightening around Yugi's fingers. ". . . I'm on my way."

**X**

"So? What's the damage?"

Malik shifted uncomfortably as his friend asked the question, glancing uninterestedly around what appeared to be (to the untrained eye) a normal doctor's office. However, if you knew where to look, one could catch glimpses of incredibly advanced technology (and its corresponding toys) hiding beyond secret panels and behind cabinet doors. Well, it was to be expected—this wasn't a room for normal humans.

It was for 'coms.

Yes, he and Bakura knew "so much" about persocoms, they had to take their find to a professional. Even THEY had to admit that it was pathetic. (_'I'll have to buy a "For Dummies" book on the way home,_' the Egyptian thought blandly, shivering a bit. He wasn't fond of any sort of physician.)

"Hmm. . ." Carefully fixing his round glasses, the doctor pulled a pen out of his lab coat pocket and jotted a few hesitant notes down on his clipboard (all while muttering something that sounded strangely like _"what the _hell_—!"_). The lights gave an odd flicker. Doe-brown eyes narrowing in shock, he let out a startled sort of sigh, turning to face the speaker with unidentifiable expression. "I. . . um. . . am not really sure."

Silence.

"What!" Bakura finally managed to snap, gaping at his cousin—the legendary Dr. Kimura. "Ryou—how the hell can you **_not know_**? You fucking **invented** persocoms!"

"No, I didn't," Ryou replied calmly, bypassing a crestfallen Malik on his way to the supply cabinet. After fiddling with a few hidden buttons and switches (still shaking his head and murmuring strangely to himself), he retrieved three new tools of peculiar shape and size, moving back towards the garbage-smudged 'com. She had been placed carefully on a stainless steel table, cords and tubes connected to her ear-ports and chest. But those cords and tubes had begun to smell weird. . . like burning rubber. "That honor belongs Seto Kaiba. I simply help improve them."

"You made Yugi. First male prototype!" Kura pointed out in frustration, rolling his eyes when the young man flushes modestly. "Oh, don't give me that. I only remind you for motivational purposes!"

The silver haired scientist chuckled darkly, fiddling with the cords connected to the wall. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Kura—I'm motivated. Never before have I run into a persocom who defied my diagnostic machines. Nor have I ever found one without an on-switch! No. . . I'm perhaps more curious that you as to what this 'com's secrets are; I'm just being honest. If I can't revive her, I can't. Perhaps that's why you found her in the _trash. . ._?" He arched a suggestive eyebrow, but was quickly shot down by optimism.

"No, it's probably because she's an older model," Malik jumped in, sounding a bit exasperated—and embarrassed when the other's eyes fell upon him. "Well, duh—can't you tell by the ears? Her master most likely wanted a newer one."

". . ." Ryou said nothing for a moment, instead gliding over to the table— crossing his arms beside her head; resting his chin upon them. "Normally I'd agree with you. . ." he then whispered, fingers playing thoughtlessly with a strand of her silky hair. "But. . ." A frown marred his features; brow crinkling. "But. . ."

"_But_?" Bakura pressed, walking closer when his cousin moved, pointing to a mark on the girl's shoulder.

"What is it?" Malik inquired, turning away from the window and glancing towards the two men. He made a curious noise in the back of his throat as he took a step forward, joining them beside the humanoid. "What's so exciting about a smudge?"

"It's not a smudge," the pale locked doctor quipped, sounding slightly irked. "It's a serial number. All persocoms are required to have valid codes, but . . . well, I've never heard of this one before."

The elder snowy-crowned male cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So? I'm sure all 'coms have different numbers for referencing purposes."

"True, but there are _guidelines_," Ryou embellished, definitely annoyed now. "Though their barcodes and numbers are all unique, each is supposed to have one of three 'anagrams': SIC, _semi-conscious information computer_—those persocoms in stereotypical robot movies, you know, with the ability to function independently but with no personality?— PAL, _pre-programmed artificial life_— laptops and notebooks that come, as the name suggests, pre-programmed with information and individual traits— or CAT_, character attributes 'to-be-decided'_. Those are the 'coms that most people want: the human-sized ones that can be made to do anything the user wants. The newer models and the like."

"CAT? Is that where the 'ears' on the originals came from?" Malik asked with a trace of a smile. The scientist nodded with a soft laugh.

"Kaiba does have a sense of humor _somewhere_ inside, it seems. . ."

"Not to interrupt this fun-fun conversation or anything," Bakura suddenly cut in, scowling, "but some of us don't plan on having missed an exam at school for _nothing_. What's so strange about this one's number?"

Kura's cousin groaned, all patience gone. "Did you hear **_nothing_**! Look at her shoulder!"

". . . ?" The roommates tilted their heads, craning their necks to look over Ryou's head. And then they saw it. . .

_00 T R; I S H _

"TRISH?" Malik murmured, baffled. "But. . . what does _that_ stand for?"

"I **_don't know_**!" the doctor cried, now thoroughly irritated— fist clenching around a lock of the 'com's hair. "Even custom models like Yugi need to go through the government and receive a specified code—without it, the maker _shouldn't_ _be_ _able_ to receive the equipment to install the persocoms' 'brain' and 'heart' units! And even forgetting that—she still defies sense! She has no visible 'on' switch, and her circuits completely blew mine! Not only did she reject them—which has never happened before, let me tell you— but she managed to crash my main hard drive without even being conscious!"

The Brit and Egyptian could think of nothing to say to that.

"I. . . I just don't know," Ryou continued, though he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. Squinting, he stared deep into the slumbering machine's face, biting his thumb nail. "She must be a special model. . . but I've never heard of. . . ? Why was she in the garbage? What secrets does she hold. . . ? And how do you. . . how. . . oh my God."

Straightening abruptly, the young man gasped. "It couldn't. . . no one's ever been able to make that work— but she seems advanced. . . !"

"!" Bakura and Malik stiffened, slightly nervous— never having seen Ryou _this_ excited. (Actually, he seemed past excitement— standing, toying with his hair, grinning, flexing his fingers. . .) "What are you talking abo—?"

"Boys," he breathed, tears nearly glistening in his eyes. "I figured it out. We may still be able to revive her, if my theory is correct. . . ! It's a long shot, but the rest of her is so high-tech. . . and many researchers have wanted things to reach this point. . ."

". . ." The blonde shot his friend a deadpan look. "Just turn her fuckin' ON!"

"Oh, will I!" the scientist sang, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Watch this, you two, as you may never see it again!"

With that, Ryou took a deep breath, leaned foreword—

And pressed his mouth to the girl's in an unmistakable kiss.


	3. 00 T R I S H IIIIII

_Author's Note: Two quick things—ONE: These characters are NOT meant to represent any other character or event, from Chobits or any otherwise (well, except YuGiOh, for obvious reasons. XD)._

_Secondly, I forgot to mention something _**IMPORTANT** _(did that catch everyone's attention? ;) ) about the persocom's. . . er. . . speaking system. Usually they will have the same sort of dialogue as everyone else, represented by the normal _"blah blah blah"_ format. However, in certain modes (such as rebooting mode, etc.) they will talk like this _"**Blah blah blah**" _or like this _"**BLAH BLAH BLAH**". _The difference between the second two? The latter is more 'robot-like,' for lack of a better word. It's to show that they're working at basic programming and are not anywhere near 'usual.'_

_Sorry it's so confusing—in the original document I used different fonts to show the changes (it looked a lot cooler), but I can't do that on ff(dot)net. (Now it just looks like they're yelling. (heavy sigh)) _

Thanks for all of the reviews so far! Please continue to enjoy! XD

XXX

_LOGIN TWO: _

00 T R; I S H IIIIII

XXX

The result was instantaneous and chaotic.

"**_What the hell do you think you're doing!"_** Bakura yelped, flying forward to do. . . something. What he wasn't sure—but that turned out to not be a problem, as Malik knew what to do: pull the young doctor (none too gently) away. "That's OUR machine you're—!"

"Shhh!" Ryou hissed, apparently unaware that he was being dangling by the collar of his button-up shirt. "Look!"

_Ka-chunk. . . beeeeeeeep—!_

Both students froze, turning their heads in the direction on the young man's finger. . . and of the noise.

"Oh my God. . ." the Egyptian murmured, lavender orbs widening in shock as the limp 'com on the table suddenly sat up— red-brown eyes blank.

"**ACTIVATING PROTOTYPE NUMBER 00—** **T R; I S H. BARCODE: IIIIII. TIME SINCE PREVIOUS USE: 7 MONTHS, 4 DAYS, 3 HOURS, 15 MINUTES, 26.98 SECONDS. REGISTERING NEW MASTER. DNA SAMPLE PROCESSING. . . COMPLETE. NAME: RYOU KIMURA. AGE: 23, 6 MONTHS, 47 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 5.61 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: PERSOCOM DESIGNER/DOCTOR. HIGHLY RECOGNIZED; RESPECTED. CHANGE/ADD DATA?**"

Without any thought to personal appearance, Bakura gawked at the girl—then at his smug looking cousin. ". . . What the hell—!"

"Isn't it ingenious?" the doctor whispered excitedly, straightening his lapel as Malik (in utter shock) slowly released him. "I've never seen this in action. . . but the result appears to be what we designers have always dreamed about! Though a kiss, the persocom is able to access DNA—and thus, data— on you, making her impossible for anyone to steal and hack into! She'd only respond to a new person with your permission or the password!"

Malik blinked slowly, exchanging a look with his friend which clearly said: "_WHAT is going ON?_"

The persocom, now standing before them in all her scantly bandaged glory, beeped a second time. "**CHANGE/ADD DATA?**"

Ryou waited a moment, staring from one man to the next, then sighed—giving up on any sort of response. "Yes," he stated firmly, addressing the machine. "Changing masters. New masters: Bakura Kimura and Malik Ishtar."

TR;ISH allowed her eyes to slide to a half lidded state. "**REGISTERING NEW MASTER NAMES. CONNECTING TO THE INTERNET. . . PROCESSING. . . DATA FOUND. BAKURA KIMURA; AGE: 25, 5 MONTHS, 13 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 17.23 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: WORKS PART TIME AT DARK DUELS. STUDENT AT DOMINO UNIVERSITY. AVERAGE GRADE: C+. DELINQUIET; DETAINED BY THE POLIECE 4 TIMES FOR CRIMES SUCH AS SHOPLIFTING AND VANDILISM. LAST CAUGHT 7 YEARS, 11 MONTHS, 14 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 23.04 SECONDS AGO. BEEN "CLEAN" SINCE.**"

Flushing in embarrassment and irritation at this sudden—and quite accurate—walk down memory lane, Kura opened his mouth to snap at the snickering Malik. . .

When the 'com relentlessly continued. But this time, in Bakura's favor.

"**. . . PROCESSING. . . DATA FOUND. MALIK ISHTAR; AGE: 24, 12 MONTHS, 2 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 46 MINUTES, 03 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: WORKS PART TIME AT JONOUCHI'S BOUTIQUE FOR MEN. STUDENT AT DOMINO UNIVERSITY. AVERAGE GRADE: F. INSOLENT— BEEN REPORTED BY TEACHERS TO BE RUDE AND UNHELPFUL. PREVIOUS GANG MEMBER; QUIT BEFORE A HOLD UP. MANAGED TO AVOID CHARGES BY TIPPING OFF THE POLIECE REGARDING THE OTHER'S WEREABOUTS AND PLANS.**"

By then, the blonde's laughter had become silence. Now, he was frowning—and looking a bit put out. "I'm not insolent. . . !"

Bakura snickered, arching an eyebrow. "You work at a _boutique_?"

"Shut up!"

The persocom made another strange sound, interrupting the petty fight. "**MASTERS' VOICES COMMIT TO HARD DRIVE. UPLOAD PASSWORD NOW.**"

Both boys blinked blankly. "Password?"

"A code," Ryou clarified, crossing one leg over the other as he straightened in his chair, content to watch their stupidity from the corner. "It will allow you to access her brain and other inner workings if circumstance decrees it necessary. It will also insure that she will still be yours if someone shuts her down."

"But then, how are we able to use her?" Malik inquired, brow crinkling. "She didn't ask for a password when you kissed her. Hell—what was all that you were just saying about being 'unable to hack into her'. . . ? I think we just did!"

"Her memory chip must have been removed or damaged," the doctor shrugged. "I'm not too concerned about that; it's a normal practice for those who throw out their 'coms. Don't want the hobos learning intimate details of their personal life, I guess."

"I see. . ." Bakura turned slowly back to the computer-girl, who was still waiting patiently in a state of semi-consciousness. "Er. . . the password will be. . .—"

"—Make sure it's something unique—not information that's easy for a hacker to obtain, or something you say often," the older male's cousin hissed, remembering the things Kura used to use as internet log-in phrases.

". . . shit."

The robot didn't miss a beat: "**PROCESSING. . . COMPLETE. PASSWORD: SHIT. CONFIRMED.**"

. . . uh oh.

"Whaaaaaat!" Malik fumed, glaring at Bakura's gaping face as the silver-haired student digested this new (and rather ironic) plot twist. "Good going, moron!"

"Oh, shut up. . ." the second mumbled, pink with embarrassment. _'Guess I'll have to chose a new-favorite swear. . .'_

"**NEW PROGRAMING COMPLETE**," the persocom trailed on, oblivious. "**REBOOT. . . RESTARTING NOW.**"

And with that, the girl fell silent—eyes closing as her body crumpled: hitting the floor with a light 'thump'.

**X**

"So. . ."

The boys simultaneously cleared their throats, looking down at the persocom who was lying noiselessly on Malik's futon. They had somehow managed to change her—unraveling her gauze with their eyes shut (though, as Bakura pointed out, why should they be so flustered? It wasn't like she was _real._ (Not that that knowledge kept HIM from blushing. . .)), pulling one of their old nightshirts over her head. It was too large for her in body: dangling pathetically off of her shoulders, swimming on her torso; but it didn't cover much past her thigh. Luckily, Bakura managed to find an article of women's underwear hiding under the couch. (No questions were asked.)

But now that that was all over, the two were at a loss. What would happen when she finished rebooting? She obviously had no memory of her former owner—or the fact that she'd even _had_ a former owner—but apart from her memory, Ryou said she appeared fine. (It was hard for him to tell, though, considering she seemed to defy equipment.)

"Why do you think she was out there?" the blonde asked suddenly, looking up in curiosity. Bakura glared; he faltered— evidently put out by the look tossed in his direction. "Just trying to make conversation. . . "

After a long instant, his friend sighed. "I don't know," he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning lazily against the wall. "Maybe because she's not compatible with today's machinery? Ryou mentioned that she may have been a screwed up custom-build. She was out in the trash for a while, in any case. Remember—she mentioned something about being off for over half a year."

"Wonder why she wasn't taken to the dump," Malik mumbled, watching the 'com's chest rise and fall in imitation of breathing.

"Don't be thick," Kura grumbled. "The trash company is run by persocoms. They wouldn't toss out one of their own. Aren't they programmed like that or something?"

"I dunno," the Egyptian snorted. "I know as much as you when it comes to computers. That is to say, nothing." He was silenced by a well-deserved pillow in the face.

An odd sort of quiet blanketed the pair once more; two sets of eyes trained on the 'girl'. A million questions raced through their minds: _Where is this girl—no, thing—from? Why was she REALLY in the trash? Why couldn't Ryou decode her? What now?_

What **_now_**?

". . . She needs a name," Malik said unexpectedly, voice firm. He tuned out the groan and eye roll that followed this statement, instead choosing to scratch his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think? How about. . . Katylin? Trinity? Or Serenity?"

"How about no?" the older boy sneered. "And if you say Anzu, I'll have to kill you."

The blonde shuddered. "NOT funny."

". . ."

Cars honked outside the window; a bus pulled around the corner.

". . ."

A few more seconds passed.

". . ."

Bakura blew out his cheeks, eyes half-lidded in boredom. "How about Trish?"

Giving a start, the other shot his roommate a weird glance. "What? Why?"

The silver locked boy gestured vaguely towards her shoulder. "T R; I S H. It spells Trish. Maybe that's her name."

Malik made a strange noise in the back of his throat. "Uh, no, it's her brand. Your cousin said so!"

"No, he said that he'd never heard of a persocom with the acronym TR;ISH on its arm," Kura 'corrected' (though technically his friend had been right). "Besides, she looks like a Trish."

The Egyptian didn't respond for a moment, instead giving the computer a scrutinizing once-over. One or two indescribable expressions crossed his tanned face, then: ". . . okay," he agreed. "Trish it is."

And at that moment, Trish's eyes snapped open.

**X**

If looks could kill, Bakura and Malik would both be six feet under. The two shuddered in horror and surprise as the newly dubbed 'Trish' all but hissed—scooting as far as she possibly could away from the strangers. An awkward sort of hush blanketed the three like a fog; nervous fingers clenched whatever there was to be found near by.

However, after three long minutes of excruciating nothingness, the girl seemed to have managed to form a sentence. It must have been hard, judging by the look on her face. Perhaps her equipment had suffered more damage than Ryou had believed. . . ? "Who. . ." she started—slowly, unsure, voice cracking. Well, not so much cracking as sliding: from sounding like an android on 'Star Trek' to an elderly lady, then to a child of around six—before eventually finding and sticking to a unique tone: heavier, but with a distinct feminine quality to it. Like the music of the ancient worlds. . . melodic in a darker, sweeter sort of way. "Who are you. . . ?"

"Um. . ." Malik stammered for a moment, seemingly flustered. But he soon applied a brave (if not stupid) expression, declaring proudly: "Your new masters, Malik and Bakura!"

". . ."

Trish just stared at him.

"You might want to try that again," Bakura advised dryly, resting his chin in his hands. The Egyptian cast him an annoyed glare.

"Shut up! I don't see you helping any!"

The persocom made an angry face—cheeks puffed out, eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" she repeated huffily, a note of frustration leaking into her tone.

"I told you," the blonde snapped, now thoroughly put out. "I'm Malik. And this is Bakura. Didn't we go through this already during reprogramming? Our usernames and all of that s—" But before he could finish his thought, Bakura slapped a hand over his mouth. At first he released a loud yelp, as if about to protest. . . before remembering the ordeal with the password. Oops. That would have been a hassle. . . "er. . . all of that . . . stuff. . . yeaaaah. . ."

Trish blinked, nonplussed. How a computer could be confused was completely beyond the comprehension of the college pair, but they could think of no other word to adequately describe her expression. Following another moment seemingly spent on processing information, she opened her mouth and inquired:

"Who are you?"

Gloom set in.

"Oh, man. . . !" Malik moaned, head sinking into his fingers. "She really _is_ broken! Now what?"

Bakura didn't respond, opting instead to watch his friend fall into a deep depression. But despite how hopeless the situation looked, he (surprisingly­) slowly shook his head. "No, she's not," he interrupted quietly. "She's on, ain't she? She's moving, ain't she?"

—The two paused to watch the poor 'com try to get to her feet (and collapse in the process)—

"Well, then she's not broken," he concluded. "Her voice chip may just be on the fritz. We can still use her. . . I think."

". . . You really believe so?" the tanned boy murmured hopefully after a second or two of considering this.

"Sure," Bakura replied flippantly, though he really didn't know. Whatever kept his roommate from mopping the rest of the day. . . ugh. "And it may just be that she's a bit rusty. Give her a bit of time. I'm sure she'll be good at SOMETHING."

"?" Upon hearing this, Trish appeared to perk slightly—as if recognizing something in the statement. Noticing this, the silver-locked man smiled a bit, pointing in her general direction. "See? The machine wants to be useful t—!" But his words died on his tongue as the girl beamed—

Unabashedly pulling up her shirt.

"Who are you!" She happily chirped, pointing to the center of her chest, where her heart (had she been human) should be. Nodding once or twice, she paused—face screwing up in thought—before adding (in an oddly sultry whisper): "Wants to be useful."

'_. . . Oh my God.'_

Bakura and Malik, faces as red as fire engines, began to choke—reaching out and simultaneously yanking the persocom's shirt down. ('_My pants were NOT this tight when I put them on this morning—!'_)

"Hmm?" Trish cocked her head, baffled by this unexpected behavior, but let it go with a small grin; she seemed to have forgotten her trepidation, her inner workings reminding her that these were her new masters. So instead of pressing any sort of subject, she began to fiddle with the buttons of her dark blue shirt, amused by their complexity. As she did this, the two friends exchanged dazed glances, unsure of how to react to what had just happened.

"What in hell's name was that!" Malik hissed, cheeks still the color of a beet. "Was she some sort of stripper in the past!"

"I doubt it," Bakura muttered, casting the 'girl' a strange look. "Those places would never throw out a 'com, even a malfunctioning one. They'd have too many secrets and porn movies on their hard drives. The owners could be charged or something."

"But Ryou said that Trish's hard drive was inaccessible."

"No, he said HE couldn't access it." Kura frowned. "And her main drive can't be broken, otherwise I don't think she'd be able to run at all. No, it must have just been erased. . . or re-written. Maybe damaged. Theoretically, it could probably be re-accessed."

". . ." The Egyptian simply stared at him for a few moments. "How on Earth did you learn all of this!" he asked, sounding a bit irritated. Now **_he_** was beginning to look like an idiot. . .

In response, his friend held up a book: _Persocoms for Dummies_. (Malik cursed under his breath. _'I KNEW I should have picked up a copy. . ._')

"Well," Bakura sighed a moment later, stroking an imaginary beard; his brow crinkling in thought. Idly, he began to play with their stereo's remote, accidentally switching it on. (_"**click**—ust in: another destroyed persocom found by the police. Media and masses are stunned and confused by this horrifying display; even more gruesome then the past fif—**click**_._"_) "I'm not sure what we'll do for now. But at least she seems to be able to entertain herself."

"Eh?" Malik grunted, about to question this statement when—

"Ah!" Trish cried cheerfully, literally pouncing on her masters; beaming as she proudly showed off her new buttoning skills.

Outside, a frosty wind began to blow.


	4. In the Cards

XXX

_LOGIN THREE: _

In the Cards

XXX

"And this is supposed to help her regain her memory. . . how?"

"I dunno. But it gives us something to do, right? And it helps her learn—isn't that what Ryou advised on the phone?"

The pale-locked man shrugged lightly, shuffling though the busy streets of Domino with Malik and an awe-struck Trish. She gaped open-mouthed at the buildings, hands tightening around her masters'. It had been a mere three days since the female computer had rebooted, and already she was walking, talking, and working. True, she currently had the mental capacity of a four-year old, but it was better then what the two had started out with. Kura wondered in passing if all persocoms were like this. . . maybe he'd ask Yami at work tomorrow.

"What that? What that? What that?" Trish sang, looking every which way with an excited air. Malik grinned, amused by her innocent curiosity, before naming and explaining everything she inquired about. Bakura, too, had enjoyed the little game, until he noticed how the 'com's eyes grew rather glassy whenever they spoke—absorbing and memorizing the information with a frightening hunger. He didn't know why this made him so uncomfortable. . . perhaps because it made him remember the corny 50s horror shows he used to watch. Or maybe it just reminded him of how inhuman this 'girl' really was.

Probably the latter.

"What that?" the persocom repeated, ripping her hand from Malik's and pointing at a small shop across the crowded street. Pausing amidst the throng, the boys glanced in the indicated direction.

"Oh, that's a tarot booth," the blonde replied, sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, trying not to look too dejected at having lost the warmth of Trish's fingers. "People go there to have their fortunes told." He paused, turning to face Bakura with a slightly arched eyebrow. "We have one of those around here?"

"I guess so," Bakura blinked, startled as well. "Maybe it's new."

Trish perked, giving the boys' jackets a pull. "Go!" she begged. "Go! Fortune! Go!"

"Er. . ." the Egyptian hesitated, faltering a bit. "Trish, I don't know if persocoms HAVE fortunes to be told. . ."

She tilted her head, raven hair cascading down her shoulders. And adorned in her overly-large parka and flimsy shirt (the only clothing they could find her) as she was, she looked simply too cute to ignore. Even Kura blushed a bit. (He blamed the color on the unusually harsh breeze. Winter had come at last. . .)

"Um, well," Malik started again, smiling rather drunkenly, "sure. We can try. . . let's go."

"Go? Go! Yay!" Trish squealed, grabbing the students' elbows and skipping with them towards the crosswalk.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Bakura grumbled tonelessly, glaring at his best friend. "We wanted help, not a kid!"

**X  
**

The little shop was warm and quiet: brightly colored shawls draped over the lamps and windows. From somewhere deep within the bowels of the store an easygoing sort of incense burnt— fragrant and soothing, the scents mystery accenting the soft, haunting music. Melting candles glowed from the corners, white and red and blue and violet; chimes and talismans spinning lazily from the ceiling. Crystals sparkled atop silk-covered tables. The three customers took all of this in with wide eyes, feeling a fuzzy sort of tepidness overtake their senses.

"Can I help you?"

The small group stiffened at the quiet voice, turning on their heels in surprise. A girl. . . a girl had managed to sneak up right behind them, a sweet smile on her pretty face. She was young—perhaps 15 or 16, with pale skin and thick, dark gold locks that tumbled past her shoulders; pulled into twin pigtails that fell to rest upon the back of her head, much like a young child's. She was dressed in a short gothica outfit: made of black satin and styled like a maid's dress, its multiple white ribbons curled up and down her lithe arms, long legs, and trim waist. Dusting down the lacy apron that matched her knee-high socks, she began to fiddle with the pocket watch that rested upon her bosom, waiting for some sort of answer.

Trish was the first to reply, a thrilled beam quickly returning to her lips. "Fortune!" she informed. "Fortune told!"

"Oh?" The girl smiled patiently, moving away from the group and towards the wooden podium that stood in the center of the foyer. "You'd like your fortune read?" Turning to Bakura and Malik, she added: "And you two gentlemen, too, I presume?"

The Egyptian applied a suave grin, leaning lightly against the stand. "Wow, you're good," he purred. "Are you psychic, too. . . ?" He glanced at the nametag on her chest, allowing his eyes to linger there for a moment. "Melissa?"

Melissa's lips thinned; she snapped open her planner with a noise loud enough to startle a statue. "Enough to know that someone terrible will happen to you if you continue to harass me."

He winced, surprised, before quickly moving away. Bakura snickered. A minute passed.

"Well," Melissa continued following a deep breath, smile returning; jotting down a few notes. "I thank you for your business. Unfortunately, the mistress of this shop isn't here right now; she had a previous engagement. However, she should be home shortly—would you like to join me for a drink while we wait?"

The invitation caused looks of shock to reappear on the threes' faces. "A drink?" Was she planning on poisoning Malik? Said boy shifted anxiously.

"Sure," Melissa chirped kindly, sweeping a hand towards the back of the shop. "Come with me."

**X**

"It certainly is odd to see a human worker nowadays. . . Why doesn't your mistress own a persocom?"

Melissa laughed softly, the cross-shaped earrings on her "normal" ears tinkling softly as she poured sweet tea into four highly decorated china cups. Nearly half an hour had passed since Trish, Malik, and Bakura had entered the shop—and surprisingly, the time they'd spent there had been rather enjoyable. Following the initial unpleasantness Malik's flirting had caused, the girl—who they'd been told to call 'Lissie'—had warmed up considerably, and their tea party had become quiet fun. Sitting around a low table on soft maroon poofs, Lissie had served them sponge cake and tea until they felt they were about to burst—her melodious giggles easing them into a state of drowsiness.

"My mother isn't fond of technology," Lissie explained passively, tracing the rim of her full cup with an idle finger. "And so she only employs human help."

Bakura paused, looking up from his 9th piece of cake. "Mother?"

"Yes," the girl nodded, moving to pour Trish more tea—before remembering that she didn't need or want any, being a computer. So instead, she handed the 'com a spoon to play with. Trish was thrilled. "Though we're told we look like sisters. She's around your age, actually."

Malik's eyes bulged. "How old was she when she had you—ten!"

Melissa giggled. "No, no. But I probably shouldn't say anything else. It's rather personal information, isn't it? Now. . . tell me about your persocom." She pushed another spoon towards Trish, chuckling at how happy the girl became. "Certainly a unique build. . . She has the body of a newer model, but the ears of an older one. Where did you get her? Or was she custom made?"

"We fou—" the Egyptian started proudly, but shut up when Bakura's foot connected with his toes. "Ow!"

"My cousin gave her to us," the brown-pooled male interrupted calmly. "He designs persocoms; she's probably some sort of combination of the two."

"I see. . ." Lissie pursed her lips, interested. "Well, if _that's_ the case, I suggest that you be _very_ careful."

"Huh?" Malik glanced towards the girl again, forgetting his overacted pain. "What? Why?"

Melissa arched an eyebrow. "Haven't you heard? There's a persocom killer around these parts. It's been all over the news!"

Bakura's eyes widened. "Killer. . . ? How do you kill a computer?"

"It's insane," Lissie whispered, suddenly looking a bit frightened. She started to tinker, again, with her watch—it appeared to be a nervous habit. "It's not even the work of a virus or a hacker—_that_ people are used to. No, this killer seems to just take a knife and. . . and slash them up!" Shivering, the blonde continued, forcefully gripping her own forearms. "It's strange. . . there's no pattern to the deaths or to who they happen, so it doesn't appears to be corporate espionage or a planned assault. The victims have all been random 'coms that are just out on the street. . . and by the time they're found, they're beyond repair."

A chill raced through the room.

"That's _sick_. . ." the younger male spat, face contorted in disgust. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Don't you think if the authorities knew, the attacks would have stopped by now?"

The new voice broke through the comfortable haze like a knife; shivers of shock racing up and down the two boys' spines. Trish and Melissa on the other hand, calmly glanced up with an air of happiness. (Though the raven haired persocom was simply delighted to see a potential new friend.)

"Mahlissa-sensi!" the blonde child cheered, leaping to her feet with a slight bow. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," the new woman replied smoothly, her sharp navy eyes lingering on the guests. "And these are. . . ?"

"Oh!" Gesturing to her left and right, Lissie curtsied. "Misters Bakura and Malik of Domino, and their persocom Trish."

Bakura began to nod, but then paused—head whipping around. "Wait a minute. . ." he choked, hacking up a bit of cake. (A little chest pounding was needed to do so.) "When did we tell you our names!"

To this, Melissa just winked. "Bakura-san, Malik-san, Trish-chan, I present the mistress of _Tsuki no Kodomo_, 'Child of the Moon', Mahlissa-sama."

"Welcome," the indicated woman purred, a small smirk tugging on her full pink lips, allowing the three guests a moment to drink in her presence. It was a lot to absorb, after all: she was tall, thin, and as pale as Melissa—with hair just as gold. But instead of hanging in straight waves, it crimped dramatically, cupping her chin and shoulders. And though her body itself was incredible, her outfit was nearly as fantastic: a form-fitting, off the shoulder dress made of lace and indigo silk, black ribbons looping her poof-sleeves and dangling from the silvery corset around her waist. Pearls, opals, and sapphires sparkled on her wrists and ankles; her throat home to an amethyst on a leather thong. A shimmering black shawl was draped lightly over her bare shoulders, snapped into place with an ankh-shaped brooch of silver—and matching slip-on shoes of the same material. "I do hope Lissie has behaved herself?"

"Wonderful hostess!" Trish beamed, completely unfazed, giggling as she clinked her spoons together. Malik and Bakura could only nod their agreement, throats suddenly dry.

"Oh?" Another smile pulled on Mahlissa's mouth, but this one was much more gentle. Gliding inside with a rustle of fabric and a waft of tiger lily perfume, the psychic seated herself comfortably beside Melissa, facing the three customers. Nothing was said for a minute, as if the strangers were trying to size each other up. Then the medium's dark blue eyes gave an amused flash. . . and the lights, as if on cue, dimmed—until the candles were the only break from darkness. "Most excellent."

Another hushed lull filled the room, Mahlissa's thick black lashes fluttering to a half-lidded state. Reaching into a hidden pocket of her dress, she pulled out a worn pack of tarot cards—laying them out on the table. "Shuffle them three times," she told Trish quietly, pushing the pile in her direction. "I will, too, after you. Then we'll see what your future holds."

"Kay!" The persocom happily threw her spoons to the side in favor of messily jamming the tarot cards together in a weak imitation of shuffling. Malik flushed; Bakura rolled his eyes; Lissie chuckled; Trish remained oblivious. Then she handed the deck back.

"All right, then," Mahlissa breathed, expertly snapping the cards into place. "Let's see what it says here. . ." And with that, she began to draw cards.

"The High Priestess is your significator," she began, unperturbed by the stares of the others. Instead, she was seemingly possessed by the fortune she was divining. "The card that symbolizes you. And it shows so much about you. . . Your path is clouded, miss. Secrets fill your mind; mysteries that need to be deciphered. And science. . . well, I suppose that's understandable, if you're a persocom." The woman smiled slightly, but it looked a bit strained. Bakura stiffened in his seat, as if ready to leap to Trish's defense. ('_But why? It's not like Mahlissa-san is lying. . .'_)

Trish simply giggled.

The second card was flipped over, placed across the first like a 't'. "The Hanged Man," Lissie murmured, as if desiring in on the action. Her employer didn't appear to mind. "It is your obstacle card. Wisdom. . . trials. . . sacrifice. . . prophecy."

"Sounds occult. . ." Malik muttered, chewing nonchalantly on the tongs of his fork. No one paid him any heed.

"This crowns you," Mahlissa continued, the snap of the card echoing through the lingering silence. "The Emperor— you desire stability, and a special person. Perhaps one from your past. . . ?" Her eyebrow cocked. "Such odd wishes for a machine."

Bakura felt a retort wedge in his throat, but swallowed it harshly down. Why should he react so virulently to a true statement? He cast the persocom a sideward glance, and was surprised to see she'd put her spoons down. She was actually listening; digesting and absorbing this information. As if trying to remember. . .

"This is beneath you. . . The Wheel of Fortune."

"Like the show?" the Egyptian perked. Lissie bopped him on the head. "Ow!"

"Stupid," Melissa rolled her eyes. "It means she has good luck on her side."

"Oh. . ."

Mahlissa, too, took a moment to loath the stupidity. Then she continued laying down Trish's fortune. . . "Your recent past," she whispered, "The Lovers. . ."

Trish stiffened instinctively. . . then relaxed, looking confused as to why she'd reacted so strangely. Shaking it off, she nudged a finger at the card. "It's not up right."

Lissie acknowledged this sympathetically. "No, it's upside down. But that's for a reason."

"Yes," the medium confirmed. "It changes the meaning of the cards. There was an attraction, perhaps, and trials over come. But these trials soon became failures. Defeat. Foolish choices. . ." She shrugged, not really caring what sort of affect this had on her clients, before moving along. "And your near future. . .The Moon." She frowned. "You have hidden enemies," the woman informed. "There is danger and deception close to the surface, waiting for you. . ."

The psychic's assistant paled, fingers clenching near her pocket watch. "Could it be those persocom killers on the news. . . ?" she hissed, leaning towards her employer. But the words traveled easily to the two men, ensnaring their interest. . . and fear. Both listened intently, yet, again, Mahlissa simply shrugged.

"It could be. . ." she agreed quietly. "I'm sorry to say it could be."

Trish did not respond. Her eyes were wide, blank, staring off into the distance. . . at a mirror in the corner. . .

"The seventh card is this computers feelings on her future," the blonde clairvoyant relayed, staring directly at Bakura and Malik. The boys were starting to feel rather frightened. . . "The Hermit, reversed. She's concealing something from you. . . but whether it is good or bad, whether or not she even knows she is. . .Her heart is full of fear that she tries to disguise as amnesia."

"Wait," Malik attempted to interrupt, brow furrowing. "Wait a minute—so she's not really broken? Is her hard drive—?"

"Her environment at home," the young telepath pressed on, "is represented by. . ." Another card flew from the pile. "The Star. . . ?" A smirk tugged on the woman's lip, piercing blue orbs glancing up from the reading. "You found her? How interesting. . . and this brought great hopes, didn't it? But I suppose you're not very computer savvy, are you?" She chuckled at the blank (and somewhat baffled) expressions on their faces, but quickly allowed seriousness to overtake the playful giggle; tapping the card with a manicured nail "Her previous owner abandoned her."

"No sh. . . crap," Bakura grunted sarcastically, though he found it rather unsettling that a street performer knew this.

"Her hopes—" Mahlissa chirped, now amused by this reading, "—The Empress, reversed. Aww, she wants a nice ending. . . a 'happily ever after,' if you will. She wants to know the truth about herself, and to see the lies surrounding the others' in her life unraveled. How quaint!"

The persocom—who had for so long been quiet— glowered a bit at the woman's tone, a face her masters had yet to see on her. "Don't," Trish muttered, sounding annoyed; her eyes suddenly 'older.' Lissie glanced in her direction with interest, apparently surprised by the note of disdain in her voice. After hesitating for a moment (considering whether or not to offer more spoons, probably), Melissa patted the 'com's hand.

And, oddly, the robot relaxed.

"Finally," the psychic announced, apparently unaware of what had just gone on beside her, "we have the future card. . ." With a little grin, Mahlissa lifted the card—

But rather then place it on the table with the rest, she stopped. Froze. Staring. Her face paled slightly. . .

And then she laughed, slipping the card into a pocket. "Well, that was a waste," she sang, ignoring the taken aback expressions that surrounded her. "It seems persocoms' futures can't be divined. Excuse me."

With that, she swept out of the room—gone before the others could even react.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Malik finally managed to snap, leaping to his feet. "What's the last card? What a rip off!" He spun around in a rage, trying to find someone to stick the blame on. His eyes landed on the store employee. . .

"I— I'm sorry," Lissie apologized, looking just as confused. "I've never seen her pull _that_ before. . . it must have been a. . . er. . . well, never mind." Clearing her throat, the pretty apprentice attempted a smile. "Let me make it up to you. I've got some lovely jewelry; maybe Trish-chan would like a piece or two for free? I could even find something to match her outfit."

Outfit. . . ?

"Actually. . ." Bakura began, flushing a bit, "what she _really _needs is—"

"Excellent!" Melissa giggled, not having been paying attention. Bustling happily over to a corner, she lifted an ornate wooden chest out of a hiding place, gently blowing off a thin layer of dust. "I think these will suit her. . . stylish, and they double as protection charms—to keep that nasty persocom killer away."

Grinning widely, the girl placed the box on the table and took Trish's wrist in her hand, knocking the persocom out of her daze. "Let's see. . ." Rolling up the robot's sleeve, Lissie moved to take a beaded bracelet from the box—when she paused.

"Is she wearing short sleeves?" Melissa inquired with a small frown. "It isn't good for her in this weather. Even 'coms get cold—she'll freeze up." Glancing down, her jaw dropped; horrified by Trish's equally bare legs. "And shorts!"

Both men looked away, uncomfortable. "Er. . .well. . . technically no," Malik coughed, also blushing. "To be honest, under that coat she's. . . um. . ."

Two and two made four.

Lissie gasped. "WHAT!" she roared, eyes popping furiously. "Good lord!" Pulling Trish swiftly to her feet, Melissa yanked the poor 'girl' down a dark hall, ranting and raving. "Well, at least now I know how to help!"

**X**

"I think this one will look fantastic on you!" Lissie cried happily, whipping a tube-style school girl dress out of a large closet. The additional, decorative sleeves came out a second later. "And this one, and this one too. . ." A frilly maid dress similar to the one Melissa was wearing; a goth-styled jumper with a corset covered in lace; a flowy summer number of scarlet silk. Each with its own 'protective charm' and enough gold jewelry to humble a sultan. ("I don't even know why we have it," Lissie snorted. "Mahlissa-sensi and I much prefer silver.")

Trish, even in her state of ignorance, was startled by the display. "Pretty. . ." she breathed, allowing herself to be pushed into a changing room— a small cupboard hid from the world by a curtain of violet velvet. "For me?"

"Yes," Melissa chuckled at her shock. "If they fit, they'll be for yo— eek!" The girl's face flamed, whipping around in the middle of helping Trish out of her parka. "Don't you have any underwear!"

"?" The persocom tilted her head, mystified. "I wear," she insisted. She lifted the edge of her shirt a bit to prove this.

Still facing the wall, Lissie shook her head. Her face was burning— Trish tilted her head, concerned. "No, I mean a bra— it. . .er. . . well, you need one. Stay right here, okay? I'll be right back!"

Watching Melissa skitter away with a quick titter of mystification, Trish hesitated, unsure of what to do now that she was alone. For a few moments she stood there, baffled, but then decided she might as well continue stripping—for lack of anything better to do. So off came the jacket, and the shirt that she proudly unbuttoned by herself. . .

She paused, catching sight of another mirror in the corner. The object was a mystery to her; she watched the person within it for a moment. It was the same lady she'd seen earlier, while having her fortune read. . .

The second woman waved.

Trish started. Was it supposed to do that. . . ?

"I'm back!" Lissie sang, pushing carefully through the screen; slipping inside. "And I've brought you two bras, in case your masters accidentally—!"

Again, the girl froze, eyes widening.

But this time, it wasn't from embarrassment.

"Trish. . ." she whispered, pale face draining of every ounce of color. "Oh God. . ." Taking three swift strides over, she harshly grabbed the 'com's forearm—the one with the serial number.

The persocom watched this with interest; mirror forgotten. "What's wrong?" she asked, "What does Melissa see that's bad?"

A gulp.

"It's not. . ." Lissie shook her head, a finger lightly tracing the numbers and letters. "It's not _bad_," she murmured waveringly, looking deep into the other's eyes. "But I will worry for you."

Trish blinked, chewing on her bottom lip. "?"

". . ." Melissa whimpered soundlessly before taking a deep breath, gingerly covering the humanoid's shoulder with her own palm. "Trish. . . promise me something."

Trish started, baffled. "Promise. . . ?" she echoed. Another new word. How exciting! "What is a promise?"

The assistant didn't respond for a beat or two, instead choosing her words very carefully. Upon selecting them, she slowly opened her mouth. . . "A promise is. . . a contract," the blonde explained kindly, softly—looking slightly worried. She locked their hands together, pressing them to her chest. "A bond made by words; an agreement to do or not do whatever I request because we're friends."

The child-like computer perked at the word. "Friends? We're friends?"

Lissie nodded, swallowing hard. "Promise me," she desperately whispered, fingers tightening. "Promise me you will not show anyone else your serial number."

"My number?" Trish repeated, more confused than ever. She cast said code a glance, brow furrowing. "Why?"

"It's special," the maid replied quietly. "Too special. And if anyone else knew of it. . . you could be hurt."

The persocom frowned. "Is hurting bad?"

Blue eyes crinkled sadly. "Yes."

Trish beamed. "Then I promise!"

Relief flooded Lissie's face like the evening tide, swift and thankful. Throwing her arms gratefully around the nearly-naked girl, Melissa released the breath she had been holding—then pulled away with a heart felt: "Thank you."

**X**

"Well, that was lucky."

Bakura couldn't help but nod in agreement, carrying two large paper bags of puff, frill, lace, and jewelry. But at least he didn't have to carry the dress hoop. . . "Saved us a bunch of money, anyway."

"Fun! That was fun!" Trish sang, her time with Melissa having cheered her up. And though he was happy that the veil of depression had been lifted from behind the 'girl's mechanical eyes, Kura still felt a little. . . odd. . . in the afterglow of the visit. "I made new friends! I wanna visit again!"

"Let's give them a while to recuperate from this afternoon, first," Malik teased, biting happily into an apple he'd swiped off of a passing fruit cart. "But sure, we can go again. I'd LOVE to go again. . ."

The silver locked boy snorted, fixing the bags with his left arm and locking his right around the 'com's. "Pedophile."

Flushing, the Egyptian shot him a dirty look. "Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am NOT!"

"Are t—!"

Trish squeaked inquiringly, alerting the boys' attention. "Masters," she began innocently, "what's a pedophile?"


	5. Maturing

XXX

_LOGIN FOUR: _

Maturing

XXX

She was back again.

"What are you doing, Trish?"

The girl jumped a bit, turning away from the window where she had been watching the traffic—and her own reflection. "Malik," she greeted, voice not quite as childish as it had been a few days before. Fiddling nervously with the frilling edge of one of the four dresses Lissie had forced upon her, the persocom licked her lips before explaining. "I'm watching."

"Watching?" the Egyptian smiled a bit, apparently amused. "Don't you mean thinking? You looked pretty out of it, there."

She stared.

"You looked preoccupied; your mind was on something else," he clarified, sitting beside her on the window seat. Cars rushed pass on the road bellow them; city workers were stringing lights through the trees.

"Oh. . . no," Trish replied distractedly, returning her gaze to the window. "I wasn't thinking. I was watching. First I was watching Bakura when he went off to work. . . then I was watching her." She pointed at her copy in the glass. "She keeps talking to me."

"?" Malik tilted his head, perplexed—

And then began laughing, lovingly ruffling the girl's head. "Don't be silly, Trish," he chuckled. "That's your reflection."

The persocom stuck her wide, curious eyes upon him; confused. "Reflection. . . ?"

"It's you," he explained, crossing one leg over the other and leaning his back against the cool panes. "It's like a picture of you—you see reflections on shiny surfaces. She's an illusion. And illusions can't talk. "

"But she—"

"I promise, Trish," the man soothed. "Reflections can't talk."

Upon hearing these words, Trish seemed to calm. After all, why would master lie? "Illusion. . ." the robot repeated softly, rolling the word around on her tongue. "Reflection. Silly."

Malik beamed, blushed a bit at the look of thanks the girl gave him, and then stood with a stretch. "Well, I have to go to work, too. I'll see you later, all right? Call if you need anything." With that, he swooped unexpectedly downwards and pressed his lips to Trish's cheek, scampering out of the shabby apartment before the 'com could reply.

". . ." Blinking in stupefaction, fingers pressed lightly to her own cheek, she turned to watch the people outside the window again—

But was interrupted by 'her' return.

"_So he's finally gone_," 'she' said, sounding a bit irked. "_About time. I don't like him. That other one, either. They're much too clingy. Master was better._"

Trish frowned. "Don't talk to me," she muttered, trying to stare past the woman. "Malik says you can't, so don't."

'She' smirked. "_**Reflections** can't talk, love. But I am not your reflection._"

At this, the 'com faltered, slowly moving her gaze upwards to catch the other's eye. "You're not. . . ? You're not an illusion?"

"_I didn't say **that**._"

Despite now boasting the mentality of an 11-year-old, Trish wasn't above throwing temper tantrums when frustrated. And though those times were growing fewer and farther between (much to her masters' unparalleled delight), this was looking to be one of those moments when she just couldn't help it. . . "Then what are you?" she snapped, glaring at the woman. The woman who looked like her. . . but was not.

". . ." The lady in the glass grinned sadly, pressing her fingertips to her side of the glass. "_I suppose I'm nothing more than a dream to you, now._"

The words were beyond odd. "A dream?" the 'com frowned, pressing her right palm to the other's. The window was cold.

"_Sapna, as Master would have called it at the time._"

"Sapna?" the 'girl' mimicked, trying her best to drink this all in. It was too much for her, though. . . "Is that your name?"

". . ." The woman didn't respond for a moment, her red eyes full of sadness. Why were they so sorrowful? Were they seeing something she could not? Trish squinted dramatically, gazing pointedly around the room— but saw nothing. Perhaps if she tried again. . . ?

But she was abruptly torn from the task by the sound of the lady's voice. "_. . . yes, Sapna is my name,_" she whispered softly, firmly; as if just now deciding this._ "Yes, it will be. If that is what you wish, love. And in return, I will call you what THEY call you: Trish._" With that, she moved her face towards the invisible barrier that separated them, pressing her lips to Trish's own.

And to her surprise, she could feel them.

"?" The 'com cocked her head, baffled. "What did you just do?" she asked softly, touching the place where she'd felt the warmth of someone else's skin. "Malik did that, too. Only here." She pointed to her cheek, left hand pressed to her heart. "What is that?"

"_That is a kiss,_" Sapna informed gently. "_It is a sign of affection between others. But you must never kiss anyone besides me._"

The humanoid growled in confusion. "But—but why? What's wrong with kissing? Why can't I?"

"_Because you're not human,_" Sapna told her gently, sympathetic. The beautiful dress she wore rippled around her, licking her bare arms. "_Your life is connected to your kiss. . . if your lips touch another's, you will forget again._"

Again. . . ? There was a time previous? "I don't understand," Trish complained, pressed flush to the panes— to this mysterious 'illusion'. "What did I forget? Who am I? The mark on my arm. . . the 'special' mark. . . why am I special?"

"_Because you are not human_," the image repeated, a touch of bitterness in her voice. "_Nor are you what the others think. . . you are of a different breed._"

Breed? "What. . . ?" the persocom started, staring at the limbs she'd pressed to the window. "But if I'm not human, than. . . ?"

"_A persocom._"

"A what? I've heard that word before."

In the tarot shop. . .

"_A persocom,_" Sapna echoed, staring pityingly into her copy's eyes._ "A type of interactive computer. . . made to look and act and think like a human. But not. . . you are not human, nor can you ever be. Humans are flesh, blood, emotion. Everything you are is simply a program._"

_Program. . . ? _Trish froze, beautiful dark eyes widening. This word made sense, somehow. . . it struck a chord deep inside. . . "I don't understand! I am not real? I am not like my masters?" she cried, a sharp pain shooting through her chest. A hand darted out to clutch it—she could feel the cogs inside herself whirling. "This feeling right here. . . it is a collection of . . ones and zeros. . .?"

The look-alike grinned sourly, a tart note to her tone. "_Disgusting, isn't it? You did not like it before, either. . ._"

_Before—! _It was too much. . . the 'com trembled fiercely, evolving before the 'reflection's' ruby eyes. 11. . . 13. . . 15. . . 17. A darkness lingered; her fingers clenched. And then, with her head hung, she hissed: "I see. . .

But you. . . who are you, then, Sapna? If I am nothing but bolts and screws—what does that make you?"

Sapna shook her head. "_If I could tell you, I would—but I cannot._"

"Do you not know?"

"_I know_," the woman admitted, "_but I am you and you are me, and until you accept that—until you decide to embrace what you tried to run from—until you are ready— there is nothing I can do but try to guide you._"

"I am you; you are me. . . ?" the persocom breathed, face screwed up in contemplation. It was a hard concept to swallow. . . And she didn't like the taste. "Are we one in the same?"

"_I am you,_" Sapna repeated, pulling away from the glass. "_You are me._ _Do not forget; there is more to us than meets the eye._"

Trish digested this bitterly, curling into a pathetic ball on her plush seat. _'How could I not notice?'_ she mentally berated._ 'How could I not realize. . . ?' _Synthesized sensations continued to pound on her core unit, until she could no longer take it. . . "I feel damage," the 'girl' announced in a quivering whisper, gingerly pressing her fists to her eyes. "I sting right here. . . So why, Sapna, if I am _so advanced_. . . why can I not cry?"

The other's long, raven tresses whipped in a silent wind. "_Because your emotions are not real._"

". . . that's what I thought.

Sighing, the maroon-pooled image tried to touch her copy's face. "_Do not despair, love. You cannot change who you are, or what you're made of. . . but that doesn't mean you have to let it control you._"

"No," Trish agreed slowly, though did not look up. "But it also doesn't mean it won't hurt."

"_True._"

A beat of silence passed; not awkwardly, not pleasantly. It stretched. . . And then: ". . . Will I see you again?"

Sapna smiled— lovingly, tenderly. "_Whenever you need me._"

She was gone.

**X**

"I don't understand this. . ."

"What's wrong?"

Bakura momentarily silenced his dark grumbling in favor of lifting his head from the front desk; surprised to find Yugi's wide amethyst eyes mere inches from his face. Concern was plastered across his naive features, multicolored head tilted cutely in imitation of. . .

The British teen pushed the thought from his mind; it freaked him out.

A long minute of staring. . .

Yugi didn't go away.

Kura sighed, snapping shut the thick book that lay before him on the see-though table. "This new 'com Malik and I found," he admitted grudgingly, glaring off into the distance. "Just the other day she was as cute as a button. Real sweet and innocent. . . but all of the sudden she's like a raging drama queen! All angst and depression. . . what happened?"

The boy robot's purple pools dulled for half a moment, then he snapped enthusiastically back to life. "It can't be natural," he said confidently, pulling up a stool beside his fellow employee. "All of my resources and personal files say that a persocom can only change the way you've described through the conscious reprogramming of the master. Perhaps Malik-san tampered with this 'Trish'."

Bakura blew a 'negative' raspberry. "I doubt it. . . he likes his girls soft and sweet; like marshmallows. Unless he's suddenly gone all S&M on me. . . don't look that up," he added in quick afterthought, noticing Yugi's mystified expression—the one that always proceeded some sort of internet search. (Yami would kill him if he 'damaged' little Yugi's mind chip.)

"Well," Yugi shrugged, fixing his frilly pink apron with a vague tug, "in that case, it must be in your mind. It's scientifically impossible for a persocom to mature like that without outside help or additional programming. At least, it's unheard of. . . besides, who would want such undesirable traits in their 'com?"

". . ." As the 'male' walked away, the college student blew out his cheeks. "True," he muttered sarcastically under his breath, watching the humanoid go. "Who would want to hang out with someone so imperfect. . . What _did_ we do without persocoms?"

**X**

"It's not healthy to talk to yourself, you know."

Jolted from his personal musings by this stranger's voice, Bakura straightened suddenly; shocked to see the smiling face of a new customer. _Very_ shocked, actually. After all, it was late Sunday evening. . . young children had school tomorrow, even though Christmas was near; teens only came to play the games that had been shut off for the day; parents shopped earlier. But this new man was obviously neither young nor in school—he was very much an adult. ('_Maybe a night owl.'_)

In fact, he looked sort of like an older Malik. . . same colored hair, anyway, despite how much crazier this man's stood. And they had the same shaped face and eyes; skin an identical shade of bronze. It was uncanny. . . creepy.

But not unusual, Kura assumed. The similarities ended there, anyway—this new man was much taller, fuller, and more professional than Malik could ever be. Just a taste of his confident aura was proof of that. . . And his style was impeccable. Decked in small, half-moon spectacles that sparkled intelligently, his body was covered from shoulders to foot in a thick tan coat with faux fur edges. A gold cane accompanied him as well, but it was probably just for show; he couldn't possibly be older than 30. (And his spine was as straight as a ruler.)

Despite himself, the British boy blushed—oddly embarrassed in this man's presence. ('_I didn't just turn gay, did I?'_ he wondered; horrified. He hoped not. . . he wasn't gay this morning, anyway.)"Er. . . what can I do for you, sir?"

The stranger grinned widely, glancing down his nose at the employee. "Well, I was hoping you could help me find a present for my girlfriend and daughter. They're both rather hard to shop for, you see, and I wanted to get them something special."

Bakura arched an incredulous eyebrow, about to inquire why the moron didn't go to some fancy perfume store instead, but quickly remembered what Yami had done to him _last_ time he gave advice like that to the customers. Trying to conceal a wince, Kura cleared his throat. "What were you thinking of? Maybe we could start there."

The man paused thoughtfully, considering; gloved finger tapping his smooth chin. "Well, my daughter is rather young. . . and quite fond of games. What sort of things are the girls playing with these days?"

"_Most_ kids are playing with their persocoms," the student responded rather dully. "Why not get her one of those?" He certainly looked like he could afford it, in any case. . . (or maybe he'd be lucky and find one in the trash; ha ha.)

"?" The customer shot him an inquisitive look from over the rim of his glasses. "Oh? A little sour, are we?" he uttered lightly, though his voice crackled with amusement. Leaning forward, one arm still crossed over the other, the blonde bopped Bakura's nose. "Don't like technology?"

". . ." Taken aback (and rather horrified) by the stranger's insight, Kura looked away. ('_Fucking blush—!'_) "I don't _hate _it," he defended weakly. "I mean, I have a 'com and all. . . they just make me nervous."

"Really?" the other pressed, sounding interested. His dark violet eyes glittered with cleverness. An uncomfortable uneasiness began to gnaw on Bakura's stomach. (_'Something's not right. . .'_) "Nervous? How so?"

"I dunno," Kura grunted, trying to look away from the shopper's intense gaze. "Just. . . everything about them." (Why was he spilling his guts like this?) "They're so perfect, people prefer to spend time with them rather than other humans." (He deserved no explanations.) "And I mean—they're not even real." (Yet the words just kept pouring out. . .) "Everything about them is preprogrammed and fake."

"Preprogrammed, hmm?" the man purred, listening obsessively now. Energy seemed to leap off of him in freakish waves. . . "By whom?"

". . ." Bakura stared at him like he was an idiot. "People, of course."

A chuckle. "Yes, very good," the stranger agreed, nodding once, twice, three times. A little smirk tugged on his lips. "A tougher one for the genius: human emotions. Who programs them?"

The Brit gave a start. _Humans. . .? _But. . . "Ah— ! . . . " he hesitated, baffled. How was he supposed to respond to that? Especially when words seemed to elude him—? "Uh. . . humans _aren't_ programmed," was the weak response the employee eventually managed, feeling foolish.

But the customer didn't seem to notice. Rather, his mouth simply quirked. "Oh? Then where do we get our feelings from?" he asked bluntly. A finger lifted, pointing upward. "God?"

Bakura, not being very religious, couldn't think of a reply. The older man leered; leaning closer—his elbows on the table.

"I'll let you in on a little secret," he murmured, lashes fluttering hypnotically. "Humans. . . our emotions. They're just programmed into us, as well. I don't care what you believe in—God, evolution, chance. . . no matter how you look at it; whether you feel your personality was plugged into you by parents or deities, you were _still_ programmed. You're really not that different from a persocom. . . I'll bet you that your blood even tastes as metallic as theirs. And there's a reason for that."

His white teeth flashed; he pushed himself away from the countertop.

The college student simply stared, insides icy.

And then. . . the man spoke. "I'd better be off," he announced, clearing his throat and flashing a smile. "It's getting late. Sorry for wasting your time. . ."

He vanished into the darkening streets without another word— but his presence remained in the store long after he'd left.

**X**

"Welcome home."

The greeting was swift, and not quite as warm as it had been in the early, hyper days. Still, the grin she shot him from the kitchen seemed heart-felt, so Bakura responded in the most pleasant way he could (while still feeling so weirded out, anyway).

"How was your day?" he asked out of habit, glancing at the mail she'd tossed carelessly on the living room floor. Letter. . . catalogue. . . letter. . . bill. . . fuck.

"All right. Nothing exciting—or anything that would really interest you," Trish replied curtly, flouncing out towards the couch with a tray of steaming chili, dressed in the lacy maid dress Melissa had given to her a week before. "I talked to Sapna again today."

Oh, not again. . .

Bakura rolled his eyes, irritation welling up inside. _This is getting stupid. . . _"Trish, we've been through this—your eyes must be malfunctioning or something, because your reflection is not a real person."

"—!" The 'girl' snarled, entire body puffing in anger.

**_BAM!_**

Slamming the tray onto the side table, she crossed her arms and stuck out a hip, beyond enraged. Her master (eyes still bulging from shock at the unexpected noise) stared blankly at her seething complexion, dumfounded. "_Why is it,_" she spat, furious, "_that us 'computers' **malfunction**, but real people are **injured**? Why do you only care about other **PEOPLE'S** feelings_!"

An old argument by now. "Because you don't really 'feel' _anything_, Trish," Kura retorted wearily, sick of this fight. "You may think you do, but it's actually just your progr—"

He froze. And for the first time, as the words fell from his mouth, he thought about what he was saying.

"_**Humans. . . our emotions. They're just programmed into us, as well. I don't care what you believe in—God, evolution, chance. . . no matter how you look at it; whether you feel your personality was plugged into you by parents or deities, you were still programmed. You're really not that different from a persocom. . ."**_

A shiver raced down his spine.

". . ." Trish watched him emotionlessly, not realizing what was going on. Nor did she care, to be honest. All she knew was that Malik wasn't going to be home until later, and she didn't want to waste time sparing with Bakura. So, with a sigh, she threw herself upon the couch, flicking it on. . .

And nearly went into shock at what she saw.

"_A horrible sight awaited those who passed underneath the street lamps of 4th and 5th street this evening," _the grim reporter choked, looking slightly green beneath his stage makeup. "_Near the prominent stores of Dark Duels and Valentine's Valentines, three butchered persocoms were discovered lying in an ally. Our own Riku Harada has more._"

"_Thanks, Daisuke,_" the pretty brunette nodded, though her 'all business' exterior appeared to have crumbled a bit upon taking this assignment: she, too, looked rather ill under the stars. "_I'm here at the scene of the crime, which has been cleared of all human and cyber pedestrians for reasons of safety. Though these attacks have been labeled as randomized and relating only to persons' persocoms, it is still a disturbing sight to see on nights such as this._" There was a flash of the ruined 'coms—eyes wide, blank; naked body cavities ripped open; cords and cogs sliced cleanly in two. They were no longer crackling, instead leaking thick red fluids. Far beyond repair.

Dead.

Trish pressed a hand to her lips, suddenly feeling queasy. Why she had the urge to cover her mouth, she wasn't sure; it wasn't like she could vomit, even if she wanted to. But she reacted this way all the same—just because she could. Rebellion grew inside of her.

Riku continued, somber.

"_Authorities have yet to disclose who these unlucky victims belonged to; however, as the killer may still be on the prowl, it is advised to keep all loved ones—both mechanical and otherwise— inside until further notice. It seems that—"_

An unexpected movement caught Trish's attention; the wave of a hand. The female persocom glanced over, feeling the rest of the world fall away—Sapna. Floating as she so often did in the large mirror glued to the sliding closet door.

"_Are you all right, love?" _she asked, her voice echoing through Trish's mind. It was melodic, but anxious. "_I felt a. . . ripple. A ripple of power._"

'_A ripple?'_ the 'com repeated silently, brow furrowing. Her fingers clenched. '_What do you mean?_'

"_A strong force,_" Sapna explained swiftly, still looking worried. "_That originated from a small area and expanded to touch all. I believe it radiated from that site._" She pointed at the television screen. "_A dark power; but familiar._"

'. . .'

The image blinked, pressing her hands to the opposite side of the mirror. '_. . . You felt it, too, didn't you?'_

_Click_.

"!" Trish straightened rapidly, head snapping up so quickly that she winced—jolted out of her trance by Bakura's sudden movements. Sapna vanished as abruptly as she appeared; back into the deep reassesses of. . . wherever she went. The raven locked computer blinked blankly, trying to straighten out her thoughts as her master sank beside her on the couch, face stoic. This distinctly out of character act caught the 'com's attention; she hesitated, simply watching him for a moment. . . then touched his shoulder.

He grunted, moving away.

The 'girl' flinched, as if slapped. "Uh. . . Are you okay?" she inquired tentatively, a bit uncomfortable. "You look worried about something."

Kura breathed heavily out his nose, sinking deeper into the cushions. "Just a little preoccupied, I guess. . . there was this freak at work today. Some persocom nut. . ." He quivered, a bad feeling accompanying the memory. _'I wonder what Yugi would have said about the 'normality' of THAT. . ._'

Trish, having grown quite rigid, could feel her eyes flashing at his words. So someone was a nut for liking persocoms? She opened her mouth to snap—but blew out her cheeks instead, deciding it wasn't worth it. There was no need to fight more than once a day. . . that, and whenever she and Bakura weren't talking, Malik had the tendency to start hitting on her. She wasn't in the mood for that. Ergo, one of them needed to 'patch up the (metaphorical) hole.' But instead of comfortable conversation, silence hung heavily over their heads; it was one of those occurrences that, no matter how often it happened, they still hated. Both fished fruitlessly around for something to say. . .

"_Trish!_"

The 'girl' jumped slightly, eyes swinging towards the windows. Sapna. Again? So soon?

"_Trish,_" the woman pressed before her opposite had the chance to interrupt. "_Those attacks—they happened not only near that place your master works, but also the tarot booth. Do you know if Lissie and Mahlissa are all right?_"

"!" Terror gripped the 'com's heart chip. "Master!" she gasped, turning on a dime and flinging herself towards (rather, on) Bakura. The latter, looking much more horrified at this than many would deem acceptable, stiffened in shock at this sudden contact; at a loss of words. (But he no longer wondered if he was gay.) "Master, Melissa! Melissa and the physic! They live near the attacks, too! Do you think they are okay?"

Bakura—rather red for "some reason or another"—cleared his throat and gave Trish a vain push in an attempt to shove her off. She didn't budge in the slightest. "I'm sure they're fine," he comforted a bit stiffly, trying his hardest not to look into her emotional chocolate-cherry pools. Those eyes had a strange effect on him. . . "Didn't Melissa say that her teacher didn't like persocoms?"

"That doesn't mean they may not be hurt!" Trish huffed, grip tightening. "I'm worried! Can't we check up on them!"

"How can you be worried? You're a per—!" Kura retorted, finding it rather hard to breathe all of the sudden. The humanoid scowled. Wrong answer. . . "Ack! Okay! Okay!" the student panted, feeling her tightening iron grip against the back of his neck. "We can check up on them tomorrow. . . but first you'll have to come to work with me. I need a little more time on my punch card to make this paycheck worth anything. . . deal?"

"Ah—! Deal!" Trish beamed—and this time, Bakura was sucked into her joyful expression. He gulped, feeling much hotter than he had moments before. . . but that could have just been because her body still lay on top of his. . . maybe. . . "Thank you, Master!" she cheered, her choke hold turning into a hug. And try as he might, he couldn't resist hugging her back. . . if just a littl—

**_BANG!_**

"!" The two straightened slightly, heads whipping towards the door—to find Malik, staring flatly.

"Am I interrupting something?"


End file.
